


Wet Dream

by gremlinquisitor (suchanadorer)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dream Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 14:45:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17123339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suchanadorer/pseuds/gremlinquisitor
Summary: A dream is a wish Cullen's... something makes.  And Leliana stops by after he's woken up.





	Wet Dream

He’s standing, looking down at his own reflection, watching it warp as the water ripples away from the edge of his bed.

He’s standing on his bed to stay out of the water.

The tower - he thinks of it as his tower, but only sometimes - is filled with water. His bed is an island on which he stands.

Starlight sparkles through the hole in his roof, throws motes of light onto the walls and into his eyes, and he’s dazzled.

When he looks again, he is not alone.

Alistair is exactly as Cullen remembers him, and he flushes at the thought, because he doesn’t look at all how he did when they last saw each other. He’s aged, lines around his eyes, exhaustion in his skin and his bones, scars and trembling hands and a thousand small things. But Alistair is still unmarked and soft and youthful, utterly relaxed where he’s floating in the water, inches from the edge of Cullen’s bed.

It’s dark, but the water is clear enough to see that Alistair is naked. Cullen follows the unbroken stretch of skin from his chest to his stomach, the trail of hair down to where his hips sink under the water’s surface, his body distorted but still visible, his legs glistening and wet. Cullen allows himself a lingering look, finds himself appraising Alistair, pleased by the sight. His tongue works at the scar on his upper lip as he takes in the curves of muscle, by turns soft and hard, smooth skin and hair darker than he’d imagined, given how light the hair on Alistair’s head is. 

“The water’s fine.” Alistair speaks without opening his eyes, though his head turns towards Cullen when he says it. 

Cullen bends, setting a hand on the covers for support as he lowers himself to sit on the bed. The water is low enough that it’s not seeping into the blankets, or maybe it’s not, but the blankets are dry anyway.

_\-- sheets rustling as legs tangle together, side by side in the dark, hands exploring, learning a body so like his own and yet so much better than imagined, solid and warm --_

He sits with his legs hanging over the side, feet in the water, the sensation flickering away as fast as it appeared. The water is like a new bath, and a trickle of sweat slips from his hairline down the side of his neck as he realizes how warm the air in the room is as well. Even Alistair is shining, though he can’t tell from this distance if that’s the water or sweat that’s done it. 

He wonders what it would taste like if he ran his tongue along the hollow in the center of Alistair’s chest _\-- salt on skin, sunshine and leather, Alistair sighing beneath him, hands in his hair --_ and then it’s gone and he’s back in the tower, but the taste is still in his mouth. 

Alistair floats to the side of the bed, driven by some unseen force in the water. His hand bumps against Cullen’s leg, fingers curling around the back of his ankle to hold him there. He draws lazy circles on Cullen’s skin with his thumb.

“You could join me, if you like.” And then Alistair does look, fixing Cullen with his gaze, warm but hard, filled with an intent that Cullen can’t read.

“So could you,” Cullen replies, or wants to reply. He’s not sure if he thinks it or says it aloud.

There is no splash or warning in the next moment, only Alistair there, now, kissing him, one hand planted on the bed, the other at the back of Cullen’s neck, pulling him in. Alistair brushes a soft kiss on his scar before opening the kiss, dragging his lower lip over Cullen’s mouth, and it’s not a thought but an instinct, to part his lips in response. 

Everything about Alistair is warm: his skin almost hot from the water, his hand raking through the hair at Cullen’s nape, the inside of his mouth. It’s not cold in the room, but there is a heat from him that seeps into Cullen as they kiss, pressed against each other, chest to chest. Alistair nips at Cullen’s lower lip and he answers, pushing deeper into Alistair’s mouth, devouring, both of them panting. He tries to move away and Alistair snarls, pursuing him, abandoning his mouth to trail kisses along his jaw and the side of his neck, nudging with his nose, demanding access to sensitive skin, to Cullen’s very pulse itself, exposed under Alistair’s mouth and tongue.

Cullen runs his hands up Alistair’s sides, thrills at the power of muscle shifting under skin as Alistair’s teeth find a spot behind his ear to tease. Again, Cullen imagines and is immediately rewarded _\-- nipple hard under his tongue, his laughter on Alistair’s skin as he licks and kisses, Alistair keening in response --_ before he is pulled back to where they are together, no less a fantasy. 

Alistair’s fingers dig into his hips, pulling him forward, and for a moment he thinks they’re going to tip off the edge of the bed into the water, but instead he only slots their bodies together, Cullen’s thighs on either side of Alistair’s hips, and between them comes the first eager, uncoordinated contact of their arousal, brushing touches that are too faint and uncontrolled. Cullen’s breath hitches at each one, and he feels Alistair’s answering huffs of hot breath on his skin.

He stutters, and it might be Alistair’s name, or the Maker’s, or some other wordless plea, but he accompanies it with action, palming Alistair’s ass to draw them even closer together, allowing him to rock his hips in a loose, clumsy thrust against the slick on Alistair’s belly. He wants hot, and tight, and more, so much more than this, it’s not _enough_ , it’s not--

“Relax.” Alistair chuckles. His mouth is on Cullen’s collarbone, his laugh as much a sensation as a sound. He brushes his nose along Cullen’s throat, shifting just enough to slide a hand between them, grasping both of them, together, and it’s so good when Cullen moves again. He wants, as much as he can take and more, everything, and Alistair’s hand is tight around them, they fit together so well, he always thought they would, and fall so easily into a rhythm together - bodies, breaths, heartbeats. The edges of Cullen’s consciousness are blurry, but Alistair is sharp, everywhere they touch in focus, as if he can watch from some nearby vantage point, see how he is falling apart even as he feels it. 

Alistair’s hand is replaced by his mouth, transitionless, immediate, and powerful, the cry Cullen gives is pulled from his chest, leaving him breathless and gasping. By contrast, Alistair is almost lazy in his attentions, lips and tongue relaxed around the head of Cullen’s cock, gently exploring and teasing, and Alistair alternates between lowering his gaze and flicking up to watching Cullen watching him, that same confident intent in his eyes, a flicker of humor at the intensity of Cullen’s reaction. 

“You taste _so_ good,” Alistair murmurs, meeting his eyes as he flattens his tongue against the underside of Cullen’s cock and licks from base to tip before taking him in his mouth again. The sound of pleasure that Alistair hums borders on the obscene, the thrum of it moving through him to where his own need is pooled, hot and deep between his thighs.

Alistair has slipped back into the water, one arm resting on Cullen’s thigh, his hand wrapped around Cullen’s cock, moving in time with his mouth, still slow but steady now, his earlier half-attentive teasing foreplay turned to movement with a singular purpose.

Cullen can only see the top of Alistair’s head, and he cards his fingers through his hair, watches through half-closed eyes, doesn’t want to let his head fall back. His hips twitch at each new variation: the snag of teeth, not hard but enough to feel it, show him the line between pain and pleasure; Alistair purring at the back of his throat, groans that Cullen mimics, sound deadened by the stone walls around them. Alistair works him, taking him deeper and deeper with each motion, his hand moving down to wrap around the base, fingers playing idly in the hair there. 

Cullen leans back on the bed, supporting himself on one elbow so that he can see Alistair’s face. His eyes are closed, but when he realizes that Cullen can see him, he opens them and meets his gaze, dark and powerful and needy, as if there nothing else that he would rather be doing than taking Cullen as deep as he can into his mouth.

The water clicks against the stone walls in uneven time with the movement of Alistair’s head and the hot, wet sounds he makes, little grunts and sighs. The hand that isn’t holding the base of Cullen’s cock is out of view, and as he watches he sees Alistair’s shoulder shifting in rhythm with his head. He’s getting himself off at the same time, and that thought pushes Cullen closer to the edge, knowing that this is what Alistair wants, that his cock in Alistair’s mouth is something he’s fantasized about, wanted to do while he touched himself.

_\-- muscles in his arm burn as he strokes, rocks his hips to rut against Alistair’s thigh, Alistair’s cock in his hand, Alistair’s earlobe in his teeth, Alistair, Alistair --_

Alistair pulls off, keeping his mouth close enough that his lips brush against Cullen’s tip when he turns his head. He teases with his tongue, slow motions that are too gentle for what Cullen wants, it’s not enough contact, and he rolls his hips up, trying for more. He’s too far gone, too desperate, for Alistair to start over.

“Do you want to take command, Commander?” Hot breath turns cool on damp skin, his voice sending vibrations through Cullen, and Alistair closes his eyes, catches the tip in his mouth again, soft lips that form a tight seal, and Cullen pushes up into it, groaning when Alistair responds by hollowing his cheeks. “Go on.” He can hear Alistair’s voice, but when he looks, Alistair is still surrounding him. “You won’t hurt me. Take what you want. I want it too.”

There’s an authority in his voice that Cullen’s never heard before, but he is all too willing to obey the order he’s been given. He sits forward enough to set his hand lightly on the back of Alistair’s head, and pushes again, deeper this time. He stops when he touches the back of Alistair’s throat, and is rewarded with a glance that is just as demanding as his voice. And so Cullen goes deeper, until Alistair’s nose is pressed to his skin, breath tickling the hair around his base.

He pulls back, watching Alistair’s cheeks hollow, seeing how he’s slowed his hand on his own cock, still hidden below the water, to match Cullen’s agonizing tempo.

It’s too slow for both of them. Cullen thrusts again, less careful this time, but Alistair takes it, takes all of him without pause or objection, eyes fluttering closed in pleasure only to open again. The blurry edge of Cullen’s reality shrink around him until the two of them together are all he knows. Everything is slick heat and muscles, the burn in his hips and the distant but encouraging feel of a hand on his balls, pressing at the skin behind them, and he wants more, can’t spread his legs wide enough, head falling back so his body is a taut string from his chin down to his cock, and he’s shaking, and Alistair is so beautiful, and they’re both so close, he can feel it, and--

Cullen wakes with a jolt, rock-hard and aching, nearly panicked. There is no water around his bed, and the air in the room is cold, but under his covers he’s still hot and sweating.

He rolls onto his stomach, stuffing an extra pillow under his hips for padding, something to push against, to hold his hand in place. He lifts enough to trap his arm under his body, teasing at his leaking tip with his fingers to spread the wetness before wrapping his hand around his cock. One knee hitched up, he thrusts into his fist, eyes squeezed shut, thinking only of Alistair’s mouth, the way he’d commanded Cullen to take, and how good it had felt to obey him. 

He comes with a grunt, spilling into his hand and onto the pillow. He works himself through his orgasm, whispering Alistair’s name, begging into the quiet of his room for more, please, don’t stop.

He wants to stay where he is, to stretch out in his bed and let his mind and hands wander, or to fall asleep and return to where he was, to see Alistair come apart before him. It’s a desire he hasn’t felt in months, a relief in more ways than one, a welcome if untimely return of a part of himself that he’d thought forever lost to lyrium and age.

Cullen stands, rolling his shoulders experimentally. He hasn’t felt this loose and relaxed in weeks. It won’t last, and he flushes to consider the cause of it, but he tries to enjoy it as he strips the bed, piling everything in a corner to be discreetly taken for cleaning later. The sheets would have need to be washed as it was, after a night of sweating, a lesson learned during more difficult bouts of withdrawal.

He tugs on last night’s breeches and tunic and climbs down the ladder to his office. Dawn has only just passed; he has time to read through reports before anyone will come looking for him. He can wash and change once his nerves are more settled.

Or so he thinks.

“Good morning, Commander.” Leliana is sitting on the corner of his desk, one leg swinging idly, looking for all the world like the cat who got the canary. He feels his flush spread down his chest and up to his ears, his scalp pricking with leftover sweat from his earlier exertions.

“Good morning, Leliana,” he mumbles, nodding before hurrying past her, keeping his head down as he collects the first reports he can lay hands on, anything to focus his eyes on that isn’t her piercing gaze. He needs to be able to tell himself that she doesn’t know what he was doing before he came downstairs.

“Was there something I could help you with?” He asks. His hand rubs at the side of his neck, and it takes a conscious effort to lower it to his side. There will be no mark there because what happened was a dream. 

“Oh, rather the opposite, I think.” There’s a laugh in her voice, and Cullen briefly considers dying, just letting his heart stop beating here and now, because of course she knows, it is her job to read people, and had he really been as quiet as he imagined? Had she heard the name he’d let fall from his lips?

“Hawke’s Warden friend arrived before dawn,” she continues, scraping at the edge of his desk with her nail and looking far too nonchalant for the weight she gives the words ‘ _Warden friend_ ’ when she says them. “I thought you’d want to be informed, whoever it was, but then I saw him for myself, and I had to tell you right away. He’s an old friend of mine… I thought perhaps you might have some memories of our dear Alistair as well.”

Cullen pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes, longing to be left alone with this sword.

“He’s been given significant freedom to move around Skyhold, but last I saw him, he was on the balustrades, taking a stroll.” She hops off his desk and saunters to the door, clearly confident in her acquisition of a new secret. “Shall I send him your way? He looks quite well.”

“No.” He takes a breath. It won’t do to snap at her for this; she is already enjoying it too much as it is. “No thank you, Leliana.”

She laughs brightly as she leaves, and Cullen rests his head in his hands. The reports before him could well be written in ancient Tevene for all that he can focus to read them, so he sets them aside and stands, climbing back up to where his bed stands, unmade, both a witness to and evidence of events that already feel like a part of a distant past. The basin of water in the corner is cold, but it’s just what he needs, washing quickly and dressing in fresh clothing. He feels more and more himself for each piece of armor he sets in place.

Leliana may be amused, but he trusts her not to share this with anyone, perhaps save Josephine. No, this will be his secret, and he will do his best to banish it from his thoughts. It was only a dream, a product of stress, or one ale too many before bed the night before.

And if he should happen upon Alistair during his time in Skyhold, it will be fine, he assures his reflection. Nothing happened, and nothing will happen, and that will be the end of that.


End file.
